


What We Do

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Car Sex, Established Relationship, Fuckbuddies, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, Tritter Arc, Unhealthy Relationships, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-21
Updated: 2009-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Angsty makeup smut, sort of.</p>
    </blockquote>





	What We Do

**Author's Note:**

> Angsty makeup smut, sort of.

**Title:** What We Do  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson  
 **Time Frame:** after 'Son of a Coma Guy'  
 **Author's Notes:** Angsty makeup smut, sort of.

Wilson: "You're gonna keep following me, aren't you?"  
House: "It's what we do."  
 _(from 'Lucky Thirteen')_  


 

 

"You're getting dinner," Wilson sighs, halfway down the hall before House can think of a retort.

House follows, braces himself for further Wilsonian exasperation in the car, but he's strangely silent as he backs out of the parking space, checking mirrors and flicking headlights and coming to a complete stop at the stop sign. It's not a bitchy silence—he's not exactly _ignoring_ him. Just . . . defeated, tired. Tired of House.

He doesn't know how this happened. Wilson used to be the most disgustingly cheerful person House knew—fucked up and hypocritical, sure, but steadfastly cheerful about it. Wilson used to be able to laugh at himself, but it's becoming less effortless. Surely failing at marriage a third time hasn't had _this_ much of an impact—Wilson didn't even _like_ her. Marriage is just what you _do_ —House has no doubt that's the only reason Wilson bothers.

The timing may fit, but House knows that the latest divorce isn't the problem. There's something more insidious, something that's altering him slowly. It's clear in the stoop of Wilson's shoulders, the tiredness in his eyes, the decreasing frequency of his laughter.

Wilson's rainclouds are particularly present today. And it isn't all the nonsensical crap being hurled at him by Tritter—crap that House isn't about to dignify with any sort of acknowledgement.

It isn't House's doing—Wilson had had no problem lending his car to House's hairbrained cause earlier. In fact, he'd promptly tagged along for the ride in the middle of the day without canceling appointments or blathering on about ethics, Cuddy, or even her permission. (At least not right away.)

 _Some_ thing had happened today to push Wilson over the edge into especially gloomy, un-Wilson-like behavior, and House is determined to find out what.

" _So_ ," House says broadly over the hum of the car. Wilson blinks, waking his mind up. "Playing chef _and_ therapist to a someone in need must've been a huge turn on for you."

"I'm a doctor, not a therapist."

House snorts. "I beg to differ." Wilson tilts his head, griping silently to himself. "He died, yeah, but he would've died anyway. Well, close enough. And he got closure and the chance to save his son's life. Now tell me that doesn't just warm your heart." House says it snidely but he really does want to know.

Wilson shrugs. "Yes, assisted suicide gives me the warm fuzzies, let me  
tell you."

"Oh, don't be like that." House watches the road for awhile. He hates not being able to glance into the rearview mirror and gauge Wilson's reactions as he'd done earlier.

The car turns just when House starts talking again: "It's not like you let him down or anyth—"

"Hey, I helped him die. Willingly. Why are you so concerned with my lack of concern about this? Let's focus on some of the other exciting developments of the past twenty-four hours. For instance the fact that my bank account has been suspended because of _you_."

Wilson's face holds so still. "That's not it," House insists.

Wilson's reply is too slow in coming and he pretends to be adjusting his speed to cover it up. "You know I'm in the middle of a divorce, right?"

House shakes his head. "When aren't you in the middle of a divorce? You've been in the middle of a divorce since I met first you. That's _not_ it."

Wilson sighs at the road. "You really, really need a hobby . . . other than following me around, I mean."

"Stalking," House corrects.

"We're here." Wilson jerks the car into park, out of his seat and inside the chain diner before House can remember where he put his cane.

House finds him tapping his foot at the hostess station. "Where's the fire?"

Wilson's surprised by the sound of his voice, looks annoyed at House for having the gall to follow him inside. He shakes his head and goes back to staring the fake plant in the corner into submission.

"You don't _have_ to eat with me, you know."

"Yes, actually, I do, because my account is frozen. And you owe me more money than I really want to think about," he adds.

"Hey, I didn’t ask you to lie to the cops. You came up with that one all by yourself."

"House this isn't about . . . I should _not_ have to do things like this to keep you . . . to keep you whatever it is you feel instead of happiness."

House _can't_ be the reason. If he's the reason than what's to stop Wilson from packing his things and getting the hell away from him? Of course, Wilson doesn't have the balls to ever go through with it, at least not yet. He's always had enough optimism to balance out the shit of his life, but that's changing, and House doesn't know just how downtrodden Wilson can get before he's fed up.

House focuses on Wilson's shoulder. "I told you I didn't wanna break—"

The hostess arrives, and Wilson turns around too quickly for House to catch his expression.

House orders a deli sandwich and Wilson gets the cheapest entrée on the menu. House considers thwacking him over the head with his cane. " _You're_ not the one paying for this, idiot. Haven't you done enough to satisfy your martyr complex for one day?"

Wilson makes an annoyed sound into his napkin. "Is it even possible for you to _not_ analyze something? Maybe I ordered it because I _like_ it—ever think of that? Granted, it's not as Freudian an explanation as you'd prefer, I'm sure . . ."

"The French fries are indicative of how much mommy didn't love you," House says around a mouthful. He puts his food down, laces his fingers together and peers over them at Wilson.

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Tell me what pissed you off."

" _Nothing_ pissed me off!" Wilson all but growls.

House points. "See? Just tell me. I'll figure it out eventually, but there's no guarantee that the process would be any fun for you, so."

Wilson meets his gaze for a beat. "Fine. Let's play your little game from earlier." He's keeping a lid on his anger, and that's way scarier than a tirade.

"You mean the 'game' that Coma Guy—"

"Vegetative State Guy."

"Right, Vegetative State Guy and I devised the better to find out embarrassing information about one another? Yeah that sounds perfect, actually." House takes a sip of his water. "It's called 'Asking Questions', by the way."

Wilson just holds his gaze, intent gleaming behind his eyes. "I go first. Was that story you told about the janitor total bullshit?"

"Not _total_ bullshit." He wonders if he can get Wilson to laugh. "How long do you estimate until your next failed marriage?"

"Probably two or three years," Wilson says, not blinking. "Do you value our friendship?"

"Absolutely," House says with conviction. "Until recently you were my only source of income."

Wilson laughs. House smirks. "Hospital not paying you enough?"

"Okay, now I get to ask two—gotta be careful with that inflection, Wilson. Are you simply annoyed with the whole _failure_ aspect of your latest crack at matrimony? Also . . . well, I've always wondered many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop and you're a sugar junkie—let's go with that." This isn't as fun as figuring things out for himself, but it certainly is to the point.

"No to the first one. It's really great that you're branching out into chronicling my love life, now, but it's not an actual hobby. As for the Tootsie Pops . . . by my last count? Seventy-two." Wilson clears his throat. "Are you ever going to acknowledge that Tritter might be a legitimate threat to you, no matter how unjust or unfounded his accusations may be?"

"Definitely wasn't talking about your love life; no; and, are you depressed?"

Wilson squints at him. "No . . . what makes you think I'm—?"

"Are you seriously just pissed about Tritter and your bank account?"

Wilson visibly weighs the pros and cons of lying. "I'm . . . no. No." He fiddles with his napkin, takes forever to ask his question and it comes out scratchy and wavering in his voice: "Ever love anybody else?"

House isn't sure he heard him right. ". . . What?"

"After Stacy . . . did you ever love anybody else?"

The waitress beams in out of nowhere. "Are we ready for the check, gentlemen?"

"Yeah," Wilson tells her, avoiding House's eyes like he had in the car. She puts the check on the table. "Thanks."

Wilson sneaks out of his seat while House is fishing through his wallet. "I'll be right back. Bathroom," he mutters.

House sits at the table with their leftovers and his shiny, orange credit card, stares across them at Wilson's coat. There's some shady-looking guy at the salad bar and a couple of kids eating pancakes like it's the most exciting thing in the world to do away from their parents after midnight. House checks his watch.

Wilson's already washing his hands by the time House has hobbled his way over to the bathroom. He hooks his cane on the top of the mirror Wilson's standing in front of and slips his arms around him, breathes against his neck.

Wilson jumps. "Um. You just left your credit card sitting out there?"

"I'm bored of this game. Let's play something else now."

Wilson meets House's eyes in the mirror, utterly discombobulated. "My . . . hands are wet." He holds them up for evidence.

House spins him around, still crowded against the sink and Wilson's hands still awkwardly in the air. Wilson lets out a tense breath. House presses up against him to turn off the faucet, kisses Wilson's jaw line on the way back. "You forgot that."

"Whoops," Wilson whispers, leaning until he catches House's lips with his own. He makes a soft sound after a minute that goes straight to House's groin. Wilson's arms wind around him as the kiss deepens, wet handprints on House's shirt.

House stumbles backward toward a stall, loves Wilson's groan as he locks the door and presses him back against it. Wilson's wide eyes. House finds his mouth again, hard unstable kiss and the heat of Wilson's body . . .

House is so high off of wanting him, off of Wilson's heated feedback and their inability to stop kissing, but then Wilson pushes him away.

"This is really messed up," Wilson says, to himself, _upset_ with himself. Forgetting House is even there.

Yeah, it really is messed up when House has started to enjoy the stab of panic in his gut, getting it confused with desire. He _hates_ pain, but he can't get enough of this. "Name one relationship you've ever had that wasn't messed up."

Wilson laughs a little, shakes his head. "This one's been messed up from the beginning. We can't keep doing this whenever . . . whenever you're afraid I've had enough of your shit. Whenever whoever I'm with kicks me out. This is not a cure all, House."

"Y'know, that's funny, because as I remember it you were the one that jumped me in a seedy motel in New Orleans in the first place."

Wilson tries to move away but House holds him in place. Wilson sighs. "We only have sex when something goes wrong. And it never helps anything."

"So why are we shoving our tongues down each other's throats this time?"

Wilson's face darkens, sad glowy eyes, wearing the same crestfallen expression he has all day. House lets out a frustrated growl, lunges forward to kiss him again, surprised by how easily Wilson responds, how tightly his arms wrap around him.

Before House knows what's happening Wilson has him against a wall, the other stalls jostling in their rickety foundations. His mouth trails across House's face, obsesses over a particular spot on his neck close to the still visible scar from the bullet and it occurs to House that Wilson might be genuinely afraid of losing him. If Tritter can find a solid case against him . . .

House's fingers snake into Wilson's hair, heart jumping when his eyes open, brings him up for a kiss that Wilson moans into.

Loud shoes shuffling across the tiles, followed by the bathroom door thunking shut.

Wilson detaches his mouth as silently as possible, so comically dismayed that House has to stop himself from laughing. The new addition to their private bathroom party unzips and all they can do is stand there, limbs entangled and chests heaving and lips wet, listening to him urinate. After a minute he starts to hum something.

Wilson makes a face and suddenly everything is _hilarious_ and not laughing is even more difficult than not touching. He presses his face against House's neck (the side with the scar) as the guy washes his hands, breathing/laughing over House's skin.

"Maybe we should take this to the backseat of your car," House says after the bathroom door shuts again, voice echoing louder than expected.

"Excuse me?"

"It's the middle of the night." He toys with Wilson's tie. "Unless we drive up to Makeout Point in your dad's car, I highly doubt some cop's gonna knock on the window with a flashlight."

Wilson considers for a good minute, just for show. "On the other hand, we _are_ on the cops' collective bad side, at the moment."

"Ye _ah_. Guess you'll just have to be really quiet, huh?"

The corner of Wilson's mouth quirks. He smoothes down House's shirt before unlocking the stall door and leading him back into the restaurant. House snags his cane from the mirror and follows.

What seems like hours later they're still staring at one another across the table, waiting. House tries to initiate a friendly game of footsie but Wilson glares and even kicks him on his second attempt.

Finally the waitress returns, taking her sweet time delivering a milkshake halfway across the room before sauntering over to them. "Are you guys thinking about desert?" the waitress beams.

House gives Wilson a meaningful look. "I know I am."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "We already paid, didn't we?" he says impatiently.

The waitress is oblivious. "Oh I can just add it on to your bill, it's no trouble," she coaxes. "We've got the, ah, let's see . . ." Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose while she reaches for a menu and starts pointing at things. "Well there's a _cherry_ pie, or you could get our Place For Smiles Sundae . . . grilled stickies a la mode—"

House holds up a finger. "What kind of ice cream does the sundae come with?" he asks earnestly.

"Well any kind you like, there, hon! Did you want any coffee with your sundae?"

"Actually," Wilson interrupts, loud, "we really have to get going. _House_?"

House pulls the dessert menu to him, flips through it leisurely. " _Wilson_. Look how cheerful these cookies are with their little smiley faces. I just wanna eat them right up!" He laughs and the waitress joins in.

Wilson stands, shoves House's card into his wallet. "You coming or what?" he says, suddenly hushed, and it sends shivers down House's spine. He feels his false smile fading and he nods and follows Wilson to the car.

House isn't sure how he ended up with Wilson in his lap in the back of the car but it's happening, dark and chilly and secretive. The brash light from the diner is giving Wilson a halo. He yanks House out of his jacket and throws it at the passenger seat like it's offended him. House shivers. "You never turned the heat on."

"I think we can keep warm enough," Wilson says into his ear, tongue swiping lightly.

"I . . . yeah." House slides his hands to Wilson's hips, feverish restless body under his fingertips. "But maybe we should hurry up before hypothermia takes over." It's only November but the nighttime air is forebodingly cold.

"You want a quickie?" Wilson sits back a little to work on his tie. "What do you want me to do?" Whisks his tie off his neck and into the shadows, focuses on House again, wide-eyed and panting a little.

House's mouth goes dry. Wilson kisses him as if in answer, shoulders and back making fluid, sensuous moves under House's hands. Wilson works on House's belt, his kisses beginning to meander down his neck and over the fabric of his shirt. House's heart beats too desperately in his chest.

 _Ever love anybody else?_ It echoes in House's mind too accurately, the words on Wilson's scratchy voice, the way he'd stared at his napkin and not at him.

Reality is brought into sharp focus when Wilson's fingers wrap around his cock, breathing a laugh at House's startled grunt. Wilson jerks him slow and tantalizing, watches House's face closely and House feels heat flood his cheeks from the sudden pleasure and the scrutiny, tilts his head back a little and gets Wilson's mouth nudging the open collar of his shirt in search of more skin, his hot breath in the chilled autumn air.

House insinuates his thigh between Wilson's, pulls him down by his hips and Wilson moans, presses his hardening cock rhythmically against him, greedy for friction. Wilson's hand moves a little faster on House. A little slower, a little faster, maddeningly . . .

He's more lost in sensation than he'd realized because now Wilson's repositioning them, less than mindful of House's leg, disappearing to move the passenger seat up and returning to get House's jeans out of the way with a vengeance, scrambling onto the floor between House's legs. Wilson grins up at him and takes his cock in his mouth. House's heart rate breaks the speed limit.

"This is all wrong, you know," House says, eyes tightly closed against the building pleasure. "I was gonna . . . _ahshit_ . . . gonna fuck you 'til you couldn't remember your own name, but . . . unnnn, this works too. Shit, Wilson, like that—"

"Maybe next time," Wilson says vaguely around his cock, sucks on the tip again. "You like that?"

"Are you deaf? _Ohh_ , oh _fuck_ ," House groans, arches into it.

Wilson gives a smug little laugh and continues. He practically purrs when House slips shaky fingers into his hair, takes him deeper with a little encouragement. Pulls back with his tongue firm and flickering on the underside before sucking him deep again. House tries not to look, concentrates instead on the pools of light in the empty parking lot, the oppressively neon roof of the diner. But then Wilson starts jerking the base of his cock while painting elaborate nonsense with his tongue over the rest and House has to watch, Wilson's hair obscuring his face, his mouth and chin wet—groans at the sight and again at Wilson's answering hum.

The car doesn’t seem to be warming up at all despite how much House is sweating. He can't imagine how much it'd take to get a properly scandalous fog going on the windows . . .

He's interrupted by Wilson's teeth scraping lightly, followed quickly by apologetic tongue and a slower, firmer pace in Wilson's hand. But he seems to reconsider, lets his teeth press again, little surge in pressure that modulates into heavenly suction that lasts forever and distracts House from the absence of Wilson's hand. Wilson's mouth departs with a gasp, hot and cold air swirling around in its place and making everything less hazy and more real.

House's eyes drift open to Wilson jerking his own cock fast and carelessly, his pale cheeks sketched over in color and his button down shirt sticking to his back, fabric wobbling with his movements. Wilson allows himself a subdued grunt before taking House back into his mouth, free hand on House's hip.

House can't get enough air. Wilson's sucking is less thought out, more random bursts of unbearable pleasure tempered with loose wetness and Wilson's tongue licking up under the head. The sounds Wilson lets escape, choked off _ah_ 's and curses—the intervals of silence between them—drive House insane. He wants to get Wilson on a bed somewhere and hold him down and get him this unhinged by touching _him_. Wilson's head starts bobbing faster, the hand at House's hip slippery in the sweat but gripping with cold fingers, trying to keep him still but House needs to tear at Wilson's hair in an effort to keep quiet. Wilson starts to mix it up with teeth and clever tongue and so much too much impossible heat—

House spills down Wilson's throat, the hammering of his heart riding over the bursts of pleasure and the underlying sick panic in the pit of his stomach. House has no control of his actions anymore, drags Wilson up onto the car seat, onto him, Wilson unstable and on the verge of collapse against him. House pulls Wilson's arms around him, takes over jerking Wilson off with one hand and uses the other to bring him close for a languid, open kiss. Wilson sweats and shakes and grips him so tightly there's pain, and House hopes maybe that's just all the unhappiness in Wilson transferring into him.

Wilson finds a way to thrust in tandem with House's fist. "Oh, God . . . _House_ . . ." Looks at him, dead in the eye, takes forever to speak and it comes out scratchy, wavering. "House."

House lets himself be kissed, speeds up his hand until Wilson's taught and muttering curses into his neck, maybe on the scar side. Wilson comes too loudly, somehow boneless and tense at the same time, draped over him and starting to shiver with the oncoming winter. House doesn't think orgasm has done anything to fix either one of them.

 _After Stacy . . . did you ever love anybody else? After Stacy . . . _ The Wilson in his head still won't look at him, so House won't look at him now.

"In answer to your last question: no," House tells him. "Before."

 

*


End file.
